


Stories Told At Funerals

by liaw-mostlydead (Firefly264)



Series: Humanstuck 'verse [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cancer, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Humanstuck, Papa Signless, Wakes & Funerals, hover text, implied abusive relationship, multilingual family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefly264/pseuds/liaw-mostlydead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You fall apart the way the hair fell out of his head. Slowly, almost unnoticeable to the faceless crowd of strangers faking sympathy, then all at once, falling to the bathroom floor as he sat statuesque, your mother shaving his head bare.</em>
</p>
<p>A funeral, and a moment of understanding between brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories Told At Funerals

**Author's Note:**

> quick note: there are a few places where i use spanish or arabic, because a lot of the families in this 'verse are bi- or multilingual (for this fic, the Vantas family is Peruvian, and the Maryams are from Iraq). hover over the words for a translation.

Kanaya helps you write the eulogy. 

You hate it. It doesn’t sound like you, it’s all nice stories and flowery language and no swearing. It sounds like one of his lectures, the ones he hated giving at conferences, not the ones he laughed about with his students. He’d come home every day and curse up a storm and laugh at his own stupid jokes and swing you up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry that had you screaming and hissing like a cat through your grin. But those aren’t the stories you’re telling.

Your mom urges you forward in front of everyone, and you don’t look at the casket as you pass. 

Mom’s eyes are red and puffy, but she isn’t crying. Uncle Si is on one side of her, staring at the casket with dull pain on his face, and _Jadda_ Rosa stands behind them both, a hand on each of their shoulders and she watches over the proceedings. You tear your gaze away before it breaks your heart again. 

_My father was a revolutionary_ , your note cards say. _He did incredible things, but the most important things are what he won’t be remembered for. His books will stay on shelves, and they will win awards, but his family-_

You hate it. 

“My father-“you begin, before your voice shakes, breaks, and you shatter.

You fall apart the way the hair fell out of his head. Slowly, almost unnoticeable to the faceless crowd of strangers faking sympathy, then all at once, falling to the bathroom floor as he sat statuesque, your mother shaving his head bare.

You stare at his stupid, sickeningly pale face.

“I hope he burns in hell.”

You run.

\----

There’s a corner, a dark little niche across from a stained-glass window that you fit into like it was made for you. The sunset is almost gone, but whatever is left streams through and paints the burgundy carpet bright colours. 

Your father wasn’t religious, but your _abuelo_ and all your relatives are devoutly Catholic, and these elaborate funerals are traditional in your family. You scowl at the smiling face of María and the child in her arms and pull your knees up to your chest.

You aren’t grieving. You’re angry, furious, but not sad. 

“Karkat,” you hear, and you glare up through the fringe of your bangs. 

“Fuck off,” you snap.

Kankri slides down the wall to sit next to you. His suit isn’t quite long enough in the sleeves and his shoes are a size to big, but he sits with perfect posture and stares impassively ahead, studying the window the way you had just moments before. 

“Watch your language,” he chides. “This is a place of worship.”

“Don’t care,” you grunt. “Why are you here?”

Your brother has a habit of picking at his nails, when he’s stressed or worried or thinking deeply about something. His hands are nearly still now, just trembling slightly as he loosens his tie. 

“Mother was concerned after you ran off. That was very immature, little brother.”

You heave a sigh and look up again to glare at him.

“I. Don’t. Care.” You say, enunciating carefully. He doesn’t get the hint, and stays where he is.

Kankri’s being weird, more than usual. For once, he’s not talking your ear off.

You don’t think you’ve heard him tell anyone off since Mom pulled you both out of class last week. 

He watches you with an unreadable expression, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was almost _sneering_ at you. 

“Why do you insist on being such a brat?” he says finally, the words almost exploding out. “You run and hide and leave Mother alone, today of all days, after saying _horrible_ things-“

“ _I meant it!_ ” you cry. Your brother seems shocked into silence. “I’m not going to stand in front of him and lie, and recite bullshit speeches that make everyone else feel better about being alive. It’s gross and stupid and he’d _hate it_ if he was here-“Your voice breaks off, and you run an angry hand over your burning eyes. 

“I know,” you hear, and when you look up you watch your big brother fall to pieces. “He’d hate all of this. He’d invite everyone home, and get a beer for whoever wanted one and laugh about stupid traditions, and-“his breath hitches. “He’d say you did the right thing, while I sat there like a good son and did everything properly, but not good enough for _him_.”

There’s anger in his voice, and something that sounds like hatred, tempered by the adoration you both hold for your father. 

Your father is dead. He’s gone and he’s never coming back, and you’re sitting in a dusty church corner next to your prick of a brother, who can’t stop the tears dripping off the tip of his nose as he presses his hand to his mouth like he’s going to be sick. Your family is fraying at the seams and you don’t know how to fix it.

\----

When you were four, Dad was trying to teach you to ride a bike. And because you were stupid and filled with childish bravado, you told him to take off the training wheels. He complied, while Kankri made a fuss over how dangerous it was, and checked your elbow- and knee-pads, tightened your helmet, and gave you his _‘you’re-being-stupid-just-listen-to-me’_ look. You stuck your tongue out at him and went rolling away down the gentle slope of the hill, until you found that you didn’t know how to brake right and swerved into a tree. You felt your arm crack and screamed. Kankri panicked a little bit, but stayed with you while Dad got the car and drove you to the hospital, and he was the first person to sign your cast when you asked. He wrote, ‘Be more careful next time, pequeño cámbaro’, and you screeched at him for that stupid nickname. 

He met Mom when you were five. She’s not actually related to you or Kankri, but she’s sweet and exactly what you thought a mom is supposed to be. She has two kids of her own, and they’re really loud and like to make weird puns, but they’re nice. Meulin is Kankri’s age, but beyond that they never really connected. Nepeta’s your age, and wore a black headband with cat ears on it when you first met her. She followed you around like a shadow, and drew stick figure families that Dad put up on the fridge next to yours. You were jealous and angry, and hated her for replacing you until you found out she was scared of thunder. She hid under your bed, and you got mad but not really. She said she could fight anything, even a bear, but could you please let her stay until it isn’t loud anymore? You decided if she _had_ to be there, you _guess_ you could put up with her, especially if she needed you.

When you were seven, Uncle Si started dating a really weird lady with bright pink lipstick and too much hair. He didn’t come over for dinner anymore, and he looked kind of sick whenever you saw him. You heard she has two daughters, at some boarding school out west, but she hates kids. _Jadda_ got involved, and you knew it was serious. She asked you and Kankri if you would mind sharing your rooms for a while. Sollux and Mituna stayed at your house for a long time, and Dad stayed up late into the night staring at his phone, or talking quietly with Mom in the kitchen. You decided to stop listening from the stairway when you heard him crying into her shoulder and saying things like _‘I don’t know how to get him out’_. 

When you were eight, Kankri went away to camp for a week. Dad helped him pack a duffel bag and drove for a whole day upstate because Kankri doesn’t like buses, and came back with a gas station souvenir sweatshirt and a letter for your from your brother. You frowned and ripped open the envelope, and a blank postcard and a scrawled note fell in your lap. Kankri thought Nepeta would like the picture, a white bridge over a river, surrounded by towering trees and flowering bushes. He said he’d miss you and Mom and Dad, and _please don’t mess up my room, Karkat, I know you’re thinking about it_. You had almost laughed, because he was right, and when he got home his room was undisturbed and Nep was trying to paint a copy of the photo. 

Dad collapsed at work when you were nine, and there was a week of waiting and worrying and prayers before they had a diagnosis. Multiple myeloma, a rare kind of blood cancer, was going to take your Dad away within three years at the most. The doctors shoved him into chemo, confined him to bed rest when the radiation made him sick, and stuck tubes in him when he went through infection after infection. You didn’t go to school most days, and Kankri only went because he was anal-retentive about his grades, and when visiting hours started you sat outside the room in the bleached-out hallway, breathing through your mouth because the stench of disinfectant made you nauseous. Mom drove him home when he was well enough, but he leaned heavily on her and his canes, because his bones ached constantly. _Jadda_ stayed with you and made big dinners, because even exhausted and sick your Dad wanted a party every night.

\----

You’re eleven, and somehow you’ve ended up latching on to Kankri, and for a little while he stops being your insufferable sibling and holds on to you tightly the way he did when you were four and fractured your arm. You bury your face against his chest and try not to get snot all over him, and realize he’s wearing your dad’s cologne. The weird, almost spicy, cinnamon-y scent is comforting, in a strange way.

He pulls away, and it’s awkward again as you try to make yourselves presentable again. Porrim turns the corner to find you suffering through having your tie re-tied. She fidgets with the embroidered hem of her headscarf as she approaches.

“Where have you been?” she hisses. “Your mother has been worried sick, mine is all but running the ceremony at this point –”

“Sorry,” Kankri interrupts. “We’ll be right there, won’t we Karkat?”

You nod, and Porrim seems somewhat satisfied, switching gears abruptly from angry to concerned and doting, futzing with both of your clothes as she leads you to the front entry hall, where relatives and family friends are mingling before getting in their cars. The wake is being held at your house. 

No one stays to watch them put your father in the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> those little anecdotes are probably going to be expanded on eventually. beyond that, this is probably the only thing i'm going to write that really focuses on Papa Vantas' death. he's got a whole life and family to write about, it's gonna be great.


End file.
